


the dying of the light

by CallicoKitten



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Casual Sex, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dragon Age Quest: Protect Clan Lavellan, Infidelity, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, One-Sided Attraction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2018-10-28 10:46:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallicoKitten/pseuds/CallicoKitten
Summary: "If anyone calls me Knife-ear," Daeron returns, lets a dagger fall from his sleeve into his hand. "You'll hear about it."-Daeron Lavellan just wants to fix the hole in the sky and go home but things don't end up being that simple





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've wanted to write about an angry dalish inquisitor forever and replaying the game recently i'm just so damn annoyed your quiz can't just up and go with solas at the end of trespasser so here's that story instead, with extra angst and baggage and stuff

The people at Haven eye him with equal parts awe and distrust, lips curling in distain until they see his hand. They hate him for what they have decided he is, for what they have raised him up to be. He did not ask to be named their Herald, he did not ask to stand for their Maker, it is not his problem if they cannot see beyond his ears and his vallas'lin.

"Anyone calls you Knife-ear," the Quartermaster says, brash and self-assured. "You come to me."

"If anyone calls me Knife-ear," Daeron returns, lets a dagger fall from his sleeve into his hand. "You'll hear about it."

The Quartermaster's scowl deepens. She has the build of a warrior and the pride to match. If the Spymaster were not watching, there would likely be blood on the snow but the Spymaster is watching. Is always watching. Daeron can feel her bright gaze on the back of his neck.

He has heard tell of her, of Leliana, the Nightengale. Clan Lavellan was protected from the worst of the Blight, travelling in the Free Marches but all of Thedas has heard of her role in ending things. She pulled him aside when he awoke in Haven the second time, after they had declared the Inquisition, asked what he had been doing at the Conclave. Her lips were curled in a manner that suggested she knew perfectly well how he had come to be there, had probably known for days. It was a test, probably.

Daeron must have passed because he has not yet awoken with an arrow in his throat or poison burning in his gut. Then again, it is probably just a matter of time.

("Word to the wise, Scrappy," Varric said, a few minutes later. "Don't piss off Leliana. We'll probably never even know what happened to you.")

"My apologies, Herald," the Quartermaster grits out. The victory is hollow.

-

The Inquisition's diplomat wants to know how he and his clan lived, to make the people _understand_ , she says. Daeron wants to tell her it is none of her business, wants to point out that everything the Dalish have ever shared with the Shems has been taken and twisted and thrown back against them but he misses his clan. He misses his father and brother and Keeper and friends so he talks.

She pulls a face, mentions off-hand that after a lifetime of tents and aravels and sleeping on the ground, Haven must seem a palace. She does not mean to offend, that's what leaves the bitter taste in Daeron's mouth.

-

He finds himself gravitating towards Solas, he may not be Dalish, may look at Daeron with something akin to pity, but Daeron's name sounds less clumsy on his tongue. He sits in the snow and rocks and listens to Solas talk about the Fade, about the Breach, about the wonderful things he has seen.

When Daeron was young, he dreamt of being a mage, wanted nothing more than to reach out and feel lightning in his palms but his mother's gift skipped him out, left him the only of her three children un-touched. Not so anymore.

"I will stay then," Solas says, eventually and Daeron lets out a breath he had been unaware of holding.

Solas accompanies them to the Hinterlands and on the Redcliffe road, proves his worth. The rift here is unlike the others, it bends time to it's will and Daeron is trapped, sluggish in a patch of slow. He has been felled by a terror, is trying to move, to reach the vanishing powder at his hip or any of the several knives about his person but his hands are so _slow._

The terror is faster, slides it's claws into his side and tears upwards. Daeron breathes out in a wet, exhale of red.

"The Herald!" Cassandra is shouting, "The Herald is down!"

"Hold on Scrappy!" Varric yells but Solas is there, murmuring spells, raising a healing draught to Daeron's lips, knitting him back together with quick, clever fingers. He holds Daeron up, hands gently guiding him to seal the rift as he had done the first time on the mountain.

When it is done, Daeron falls boneless against him, warm from the healing magic, exhausted from just everything, really. Solas holds him steady. " _Serannasan_ _Ma,_ _"_ he murmurs.

He feels Solas smile.

 _"_ _'Ma_ _neral,_ _"_ he says back.

-

For weeks, Daeron dreams of steady hands knitting his flesh back together, of a steady, warm blue gaze.

For weeks, Daeron wants.


	2. Chapter 2

He makes his first mistake at Therinfal Redoubt.

It is his own fault, his own arrogance. He had met with the Mages briefly, heard their terms, he thought he would have the same opportunity with the Templars. He wants only to hear their terms, to see what they offer but once he gets there, he realises he is trapped. There will be no opportunity to backtrack, he must secure the Templar's help in closing the Breach or put his faith in the Inquisition alone.

He does however, learn two things.

The first is that if he is to lead, he will have to learn far more than he cares to know about Ferelden and Orlais, far more than he thought there was possible. The Templar's fate is in his hands, he can accept them as allies or have them disband and pledge their allegiance to the Inquisition. Either choice will have a lasting effect, will have long lasting consequences stretching far in to the future that Daeron can hardly begin to comprehend. There is little future for the Dalish, there is only the present and the shadow of the past and there is only so much guidance his companions can give when the eyes of the world are on them.

The second is that against his will, this mismatched band rogues and warriors and mages have come to mean to him.

He rides to Therinfal on the great white hart his clan have sent to him, Cassandra at his right, Varric at his left. Lady Vivienne rides before them, regal in white and silver, elegant staff of birch and bright metal at her back.

She confuses him, this court-mage, whole-heartedly supporting the oppressors of her kind. Oh, she is critical of the Templars but it is nothing compared to scorn she shows to her fellow mages. They do not speak much, not since those early days at Haven when she had thrown the Dalish ways of managing magic back in his face. He is well aware that the Dalish treat mages little better than the shems, doesn't tell her that his little brother had been that dreaded fourth mage, that his mother had left in his stead, he doubts she would care anyway.

She thinks him slow, he knows, uncouth. Uneducated in the ways of her world and thus, unworthy of wielding any great power. It is very Orlesian of her. He has heard her complain of it to Cassandra, to Cullen to Josephine, to anyone who will listen. She thinks his opinion should hold no sway until he has been properly tutored, no matter the glowing mark on his hand.

(It drives Daeron to Sera in the tavern, Sera whom he gets on well with when they are not butting heads over the Dalish way of life, Sera who reminds him of his clan's First, his best friend and helps him plan several nasty, petty pranks for Lady Viv to stumble into. She escapes all but one, ends up with her pretty white robes spattered in mud and horse-muck and has the good graces not to immediately retaliate.)

But he is not an idiot; he knows the value of a well-trained mage against unfamiliar foes and she does look _glorious_ in the heat of battle, slinging ice and thunder bolts from her staff as Cassandra thunders through the Templars, shield held out as a battering ram. He and Varric zip through the fray, flitting in and out of sight, picking off stragglers, finding chinks in armour. Daeron's blades are coated in several different poisons, he has lent Varric some for his arrow-heads but the crystalline skin of the Red Templars is thick, their victory is hard won.

Ser Barris kneels on behalf of the Templars, Lady Vivienne's lip is curled in distaste, Cassandra's gaze is disapproving. If the Templars want their freedom back, they can earn it. At least the mages haven't been turning their own into monsters.

Lord Abernache is smug as they leave the Redoubt, as though he had some great part in this. No doubt he will retell this to his nobles and paint himself as a hero. The man only has his head because Varric put a gentle hand to Daeron's wrist and said, quietly, "Easy there, Scrappy. Starting a war with Orlais isn't going to help close the Breach, is it?"

-

His chest aches when the little wooden roofs and Chantry spires of Haven rise up out of the mountain fog. Home for him has always been a little group of people; he is unaccustomed to feeling such attachment to a place. Josephine and Cullen meet them at the gates.

"Well done," Solas tells him later, gentle hand on Daeron's shoulder. "The mages would have been a better option potentially but you have brought the Templars to heel, there are many who would thank you for it."

"And many who wouldn't," Daeron mutters. "As Cullen and Cassandra have just spent the better part of an hour telling me."

Solas' chuckle is rich and warm. "There is no pleasing them. But you are learning. You are shaping things."

Daeron wants to tell Solas he has no desire to shape things, he just wants to close the Breach and go home but Solas' touch is warm through Daeron's jerkin and there is something lighter on the air tonight, something less choked with fear.

-

They visit the Storm Coast while they wait for the Templars to arrive. Daeron had almost forgotten the Tevinter soldier that came bearing a message weeks ago for him at Haven.

The Bull's Chargers are worth the trip. Bull himself is grumpy that he has been made to wait, annoyed that he missed the Redoubt until someone mentions the giant demon but he makes for good company around the fire coming up with ridiculous combat strategies with Sera and swapping stories with Warden Blackwall.

Daeron excuses himself to hunt. There is little need, they are never sent anywhere without at least a week's worth of rations but he misses it. He leaves his boots by the fire-side, Sera rolls her eyes (when he returns with several birds and stirs them into the weak broth they have however, she is less annoyed about his elvishness.)

They spend a few days searching for the Wardens, fighting off bandits and giant spiders and deep-stalkers. Daeron is unsteady on the slippery terrain, the ground shifts all too often under the thick soles of his dragon-hide boots. Bull saves him more than once, grabs him as the ground disappears and yanks him back to safety.

His hands are large and gentle.

-

When Haven falls, Daeron lies beneath it in long lost tunnels and is certain he is dead. The mark at his hand sparks and burns.

There are wolves' voices on the wind when he stumbles out into the blizzard. When Daeron was young, a young hunter got separated from the rest in the dead of winter. They found him two days later, bones picked clean and glinting in a wolf den, he has feared wolves his whole life but there is something comforting now in their eerie song, something that makes him unafraid.

Cullen carries him easily, as though he weighs next to nothing, hurries him into the camp and calls for a healer. He is surprisingly gentle as he lays Daeron on the cot.

Solas lays a hand on Daeron's chest, blue gaze steady, "You are alive," he whispers, in elven. A cheer goes up behind them as Cassandra announces his survival to the troops. Solas reaches out, brushes his long fingers along the curves and branches of Daeron's vallas'lin. "You must truly have Mythal's favour."

Daeron wants to smile, wants to point out that Solas does not believe, does not hold the Evanuris in any higher regard than the shem's Maker but he is tired and the Tevinter Mage from Redcliffe appears at his side, hands glowing green with healing magic. "How nice of you to return to us, Herald," he says, in clipped tones. "You have no idea how embarrassing it would be to join up just as Andraste's chosen fell. I suppose I could spin it back home though, they might even make me Archon."

-

In his dreams, Chancellor Roderick bleeds out on the stone steps of the chantry, his secret pathway remains undiscovered. They are trapped.

They make their last stand amongst the stones and snow and burning buildings, stumbling over fire-glyphs and dodging blades. He watches his friends fall one by one.

By the time he reaches the trebuchet, they lie broken and bleeding in the snow.

In his dreams, Solas comes to him, kneels down beside him and hums a Dalish lullaby into Daeron's hair.

The orb Corypheus used to tear apart the world is elven; it is only a matter of time before they find out. They will hate him. They will think him complicit.

Things will never get better for elves.

"We can but try Lethallen," Solas says. "Find Skyhold, they will love you for it."


	3. Chapter 3

He kisses Solas in a dream of Haven as it once was, reaches up impulsively and presses his lips to Solas'. He is expecting to be pushed away but Solas pulls him closer, grips Daeron's hips and _yes,_ Daeron thinks, _finally._

Solas' hands are cool and his grip is tight, he nips at Daeron's lips, far bolder than Daeron had expected, far more skilled. Daeron's hands are working their way under Solas' tunic, through the layers of fabric. His fingers brush bare skin, Solas shudders and -

Steps back.

"We shouldn't," he says, eyes downcast. "It is not right. Not even here."

When he wakes, Solas refuses even to meet his gaze. "I am sorry," is all he will say. "It was ill thought out and I should not have encouraged it."

Daeron rages, Solas is unmoved, Solas is halting, Solas is immovable.

-

The one downside about Skyhold is it's lack of trees, Daeron will have to make do with crumbling ramparts and derelict towers. He climbs the one above the tavern, sits amongst the rafters and cracked roof tiles and sharpens his knives one by one.

"Had an argument with His Elfy-ness?" Sera says, as she drops down beside him. He doesn't ask how she found him, likely she wasn't even looking for him, she was probably scouting for a good vantage point to throw pies at people she dislikes. "Honestly, between you with your little face tattoos and him with his everything, I don't know how we get anything done, heads so far in the past."

Daeron huffs.

"Oh," Sera says. "Like that, is it?" She snorts, pats him on the back hard enough to almost send him spiralling off the narrow beam and into the cool mountain air. "Not surprised, really. I mean, thought you had better taste than that but I suppose if elfy is your type there's only so much you can do."

"Sera," he says, tiredly.

"Oh, come _on_. You've got bigger things to worry about, yeah? Like Corphy-thing and demons and I dunno, _everything_?" She nudges him again, gentler this time, lips curling into a grin. "Besides, I thought you had the hots for the Qunari. You were gonna report back, remember? Let me know whether it all works the same down there for them like it does for us then we were gonna go find me one, remember?"

And he does, pressed together in the corner of the little tavern at Haven, warm from ale laughing and laughing and laughing. Half the Inquisition probably heard them, Krem definitely did.

She sighs, "Look, I've never been good at this, okay? But you can't let the world go to shit just because you're arse over tit for some sad bald elf. I won't let you, c'mon."

She interlocks her arm with his and hefts him up.

-

The tavern at Skyhold is warm, cosy. Maryden sings prettily but it's quiet. Most of their people are still bone-tired or exhausted after Haven, after their long journey. _Sad,_ Cole says. _Wary, such fear in the air, heavy and pressing, hope is still present, a flickering candle in the dark, like a templar's vigil._

Sera shudders. Daeron rather likes him.

"Look at this place," Bull grumbles. "It's like a tomb."

"That's what I've been saying," Sera slurs. She reaches out for her glass, miscalculates and tips it off the edge of the table. "Shite," she swears. "Better get another one. Best friends of the Inquisitor still drink free, yeah?" She stands unsteadily, lurches herself towards the bar.

Daeron's told her three times that he's pretty sure that's a rule and if it was, what's that shem phrase? Elves never pay their debts. Josephine will deal with it, probably. She holds the purse strings after all.

"Really though, boss," Bull goes on. "Like I said the other night, we could use an easy win. A moral boast, type of thing." He watches Daeron closely over the rim of his flagon but he always watches Daeron closely. Guarded though, carefully cloaked. Daeron has no idea if he's reading too much into Bull's steady gaze, he's been wrong before. Wrong stings.

Daeron sits forwards, "I imagine you've got a suggestion."

Bull grins, "Not personally, but my Lieutenant has an idea."

Krem drops into Sera's empty seat beside Daeron, right on cue. They are so in sync sometimes Daeron is certain they rehearse things. "Tell him, Krem," Bull says.

"While we were poking about in Redcliffe Castle, some of the boys spotted a dragon overhead, couldn't be sure though so we asked around. Turns out, there's a high dragon nesting in the Hinterlands, wasn't a problem until it's hatchlings started getting bigger. It's started venturing out, hunting sheep, druffalo but it's only a matter of time. There's no _specific_ reward for killing it, mind, but I'm sure a fine upstanding elf such as yourself wouldn't be doing it for the coin."

"So whaddya think, boss? Ready to add 'Dragon Slayer' to your title?"

-

They plan out their strategy over breakfast the next morning. Josephine keeps bustling through, apologising for the lack of food, the lack of variety, they are still rebuilding their supply lines, some of their merchants have yet to reach Skyhold. Cassandra is unimpressed. It's reckless, she says, to risk his life going after a dragon with so much at stake. Cullen agrees that a morale boost wouldn't go amiss. Leliana watches the circular arguments between them with a smirk on her face.

It doesn't matter, they have no other plans yet and Daeron needs to kill something. The bigger, the better.

" _Fine,_ " Cassandra relents eventually. "But if it looks like we will be unsuccessful at any point you will give me your word that we will retreat."

-

They send word ahead of their success, spend the evening in Redcliffe celebrating. The people are cheering, clapping them on the back. Bull toasts to dragons, to the Inquisition, keeps a hand on Daeron's shoulder all night long.


	4. Chapter 4

The Champion of Kirkwall arrives late at night, Varric asks Daeron to meet him on the ramparts. Daeron knows a little of Hawke's deeds, has head many of the filthier sections of Varric's Tale relayed to him by Sera in the tavern, no one seems one hundred percent sure which parts of the tale are true and which aren't.

All Daeron knows for sure is that Varric left out the slaughter of Clan Sabrae, probably didn't do wonders for the man of the people thing he was going for.

Daeron keeps his hands carefully folded behind his back as they talk; he has several knives within his reach and there are people here who would thank him for slaying the Champion but there are more who wouldn't.

Varric says it was the Keeper's fault; she raised a demon to protect Merrill, Hawke had no choice. The clan didn't believe that though, Hawke's brash nature didn't help. Daeron met Merrill once at the only Arlathvhen he's attended, remembers her as strange, wide green eyes and pale skin and little nicks all up her arm. Their Keeper had warned them all to stay away from her, given them another lecture on blood magic.

When Daeron asked about it months ago in Haven, Varric was bristly about it, kept his gaze low. He wasn't there but he wishes he was, thinks he could have put that silver tongue of his to good use and saved some elves. He isn't going to bring it up but Hawke does it for him.

"Look, Varric mentioned you knew Merrill's Keeper, her clan I just want you to know that I didn't intend for that to happen." He shuffles his feet uncomfortably, fidgets with a loose strapping on his gauntlets, but he holds Daeron's gaze steady.

He's probably not looking for forgiveness, Hawke doesn't seem the type to need it but even if he was, Daeron wouldn't grant it. "Everyone says that," he says, bitterly. "No one ever _intends_ to slaughter elves, it just keeps happening. Life seems funny that way."

-

"I'd be careful, if I were you," Varric says, as they watch Hawke ride out towards Crestwood. "If you get Hawke killed, you're going to have a very angry elf to contend with."

"I'm sure I'll cope," Daeron says.

Varric snorts. "I dunno, Scrappy. Fenris can be very, _very_ angry."

-

"I do not understand why you are allowing him to stay," Solas says as Daeron passes through his rooms on the way up to the rookery. Daeron bristles. They haven't spoken since Solas shook his head, avoided his gaze, since Solas pushed him away.

"That's rich," Daeron mutters, "Coming from _you_."

He's willing to let it slide, to go on with his day and meet with Leliana about reaching Crestwood, about finding Hawke's Warden but Solas it seems, is not content to leave things be. From behind him, Solas splutters, "I'm sorry."

Daeron turns, "I thought you felt no kinship with the elves, with my people."

"There is feeling kinship, _lethallen,_ and then there is playing host to a murderer," Solas returns.

Daeron laughs. This is not about Hawke, not about Clan Sabrae, this is about something more. Solas cares about nothing save his spirits. Daeron sees that now. "Ma banal las halamshir var vhen," he spits. _You do nothing for our people, you have abandoned them._

An angry flush rises in Solas' pale skin. He feels _something_ at least. "I have done no such thing, I simply see no way to help the elves, oppressed as they are now."

"Ma halani!" Daeron shouts. "Lasa ghilan!" _Help us then, guide us!_

"How many Dalish would listen?" He snaps. "Most care little about improving their lives. They already consider themselves perfect, the sole keepers of elven lore. I might reach a few, at most!"

He looks at Daeron, shakes his head, deflates slightly. "But… You are right. That is more than I reach doing nothing. I suppose I am just tired of fighting."

"Fighting _what_?" Daeron spits.

Solas looks at him tiredly.

Above them, Dorian leans over the balcony. "If you're going to be so loud could you at least do us the courtesy of using the common tongue? At least that way it would provide entertainment."

"If you desire a translation," Solas says, venomously. "I am sure Leliana would be happy to provide you with one."

Leliana laughs from the rafters.

Solas looks back to Daeron. "I am not what you think, da'len," he says, ice in his words, brittle and cracking. "I pick my battles carefully, I see no sense in fighting to the death over helpless causes. Dirthara-ma, da'mi." _May you learn, little blade._

Daeron scowls. Stalks back out of the library and down to the tavern, Leliana and Crestwood forgotten. He stomps across to Iron Bull and thumps him in the arm, "Spar with me," he demands.

Bull stands up, "Sure, boss."

-

Later, Bull holds him up by the wrists like Daeron weighs nothing, like Daeron _is_ nothing. His gaze though, cool and blue as his skin, is careful, measured as ever, "I will never hurt you," he says. "Not unless you want me to."

And _oh_ , Daeron wants but first he wants Bull to stop talking like this is a business transaction, like he's providing a service, like he's nothing more than a damned weapon for Daeron to wield. "What do _you_ want Bull?"

Bull makes this noise, low in his throat. "I don't think you're quite ready for that, boss," and his voice is different this time, warm and rich.

"I took down a dragon," Daeron says. "I stared down an ancient Tevinter magister and a demon twice the size of me; I think I can handle it."

Bull draws closer with each word, eyes dark. He doesn't hold Daeron delicately, not like the few shems Daeron's bedded before. He knows how others view elves, how they think they're all delicate and breakable and willowy, like they don't carve out an existence in spaces only vacant because men and dwarves and qunari couldn't stand to live there.

"No, boss," Bull says. "I _really_ don't think you can handle it."

"Try me," Daeron dares.

Bull inhales slowly, good eye fluttering shut briefly. Daeron feels a thrill go through him. He did that, made the Iron Bull unsteady. "Last chance," Bull growls.

-

Sera laughs herself silly over it, laughs herself boneless. "How can you even _walk_?" she asks, in her bright little room above the tavern.

Daeron is sprawled out amongst her pillows, Sera sits cross legged above him. "Delicately," he decides and she laughs again. Daeron feels lighter than he has done in weeks.

"Well, that settles it then. I guess we've got to find me one to try out, huh? I wonder if Leliana could hook us up."

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look who's not dead!

News reaches him as they arrive in Dirthavaren. The shem’s Exalted Plains. A land of sparse grass and ash and wounds still fresh and festering.

He has pushed news of the Clan’s misfortune, of the danger they are in as far as he can from his mind but it lingers there still, ever present. Falon’din at his back.

He thinks the missive is nothing more than a requisition, after all the officer hands it to him with no more than a curt, “Came for you, sir.” They must not have read it, he realises later. The seal was unbroken. Leliana must know but for whatever reason she has chosen this method of notifying him. As it stands though he simply thanks the officer, slips the missive into his breast pocket unread. It is only later, with corpse blood and gunk spattered across his armour that he pulls it out.

He reads it through once. Then once again.

The words make no sense to him.

They are in his Keeper’s hand.

“What’s Josephine want now?” Sera calls across the campfire. “Or is it that tit Morris? Never liked him. Whatever happened to Threnn? Now _she_ was a laugh.”

Daeron does not know what to say. How to make his mouth move. How to make sounds come out.

The silence stretches too long. Blackwall frowns. “Everything alright?”

Daeron blinks. “Fine,” some part of him says. “Just tired. Turns out killing Orlesians and revenants is a little trickier than hunting rabbits.”

Sera snorts, rolls her eyes. “Nothin’ gets past you, does it, Elf-boy? Must be those Dalish eyes or somethin’.”

Blackwall smiles.

Daeron smiles back, avoids Solas’ watchful gaze. Solas is only here for his friend, he has made that clear but if there is anyone here who can see through his lie it is him.

He passes the rest of the evening with a ringing in his ears, a crawling under his skin. When he lies down to sleep he finds he cannot. They are camped by a river, it makes him think of home. His clan kept to the river. How many times had he fallen asleep to some tale wove about the Minanter? How long had it taken him to learn how to fish? How to stand still and patient in the shallows? How often had he and his brothers dove down beneath the surface in search of ancient treasures?

It doesn’t make sense. It must be a trick. A bad dream.

-

He does not sleep well. Jerks awake from hazy dreams of running through forests while his family screams for help.

 _Where are you?_ He shouts. _I’m coming! Please don’t go! Please don’t leave._

He is grouchy. Sera picks up on it immediately and needles him like the child she still is, flicks crumbs at him, pesters him with questions. Daeron would like nothing more than to sit and read the letter over and over again until he can make sense of it all but there is still much to be done, more barracks to clear, more stupid Orlesians to save and of course, there is –

“My friend, Inquisitor?” Solas prompts.

Yesterday when they had arrived Daeron had asked whether it could wait, enjoyed the stricken look that had passed briefly across Solas’ face. Now he wants to do nothing in service of the shem so he nods, evenly.

“Let’s go and save your friend.”

-

Solas’ friend is a demon.

“You _corrupted_ it,” Solas snarls, full of hurt and anger and rage. Daeron shares his agony but he is not thinking of Solas, of his friend. He is thinking of his family. Of the Duke’s poisonous rumours, of his corruption.

They free the once-spirit, Sera refuses to help, shouts, “A demon is a fricking demon!” and pelts the thing with arrows from afar.

He lets Solas kill the mages. This time even Blackwall cannot keep his disapproval quiet.

“You’re just going to let him _leave_?” Sera demands as Solas retreats over the barren hilltops. “He just _murdered_ all those people!”

“Those _people_ just summoned a _demon_ as you pointed out!”

“They didn’t even have a chance to defend themselves,” she protests.

Daeron has bent to retrieve one of his daggers. Absurdly, he wants Bull here. Not for comfort. To make him forget. To hold him down and ease him open and make him forget everything but the hands that hold him down. “Wouldn’t have made a difference,” he mutters.

Sera makes a sound of wordless anger and steps forwards, Blackwall intercedes.

“Enough. Whatever transpired here, no matter how wrong or right, is done. Let’s get back to the task at hand and speak no more of this.”

“Fine,” Sera snaps. “So long as his Elfy-ness can remember that _demons_ are the _enemy_.”

Blackwall holds a hand up to stop Daeron from responding, still positioned between them. Daeron hates him for it then but some part of him knows that eventually he will be grateful for the man standing between Sera and his knives. He settles for snarling at her before turning back towards the river, towards Orlais’ civil war.

Corporal Rosselin has asked them to liberate Fort Revasan from the dead, from the Freemen. The fort is being held by Duke Bastien’s men in his pursuit of the throne and Daeron wants to scream. The shem have no knowledge of the fort’s true meaning, they have no care for it. Revasan. The place where freedom dwells.

“Let’s go,” he growls.

By the time they reach the fort the anger within him has built into an inferno. He throws himself into the fray. There is no mage with them anymore, no barriers to be thrown his way, no healing wisps and bursts and Blackwall can hardly keep up with him, can hardly prevent the worst of the damage.

He materialises before a rage demon, buries a blade deep within it. It howls, belches molten lava over his arm before it dissipates.

“Inquisitor!” Blackwall shouts. “ _Daeron_!”

The lava seeps through the sleeves of his scout armour and onto his skin but he does not slow down. He whirls, launches himself at the next demon even as Blackwall calls for him to be careful, to not be so reckless with his life. When the Arcane Horror falls he finds himself shoved roughly against the wall by Blackwall’s shield.

“What in Andraste’s name was that?” He demands, eyes narrowed as Sera collects her arrows back up.

“I was killing _demons_ ,” Daeron snaps, loud enough for Sera to hear. “That’s what we’re supposed to be doing, right?”

Sera rolls her eyes at him, huffs. Blackwall glowers, “What has gotten into you?”

Blackwall is not holding him firmly so Daeron shoves him off. Stalks wordlessly towards the heavy doors of the fort. Behind him he hears Sera sigh, “He’s just being mopey because he’s _Dalish_. If he wants to get himself killed let him.”

“Maker’s breath, Sera, give it a rest,” Blackwall rumbles back.

-

Marshal Proulx wants them to travel across the river to where Celene’s troops are holed up. First they must wait for Cullen’s troops to repair the bridge. Daeron is restless. First he paces, then he stands, announces he wants to scout out the forests to the South, to find Var Bellanaris.

Blackwall stands too, brow creased with concern. “You should rest,” he says. “Your arm.”

Daeron’s arm is bound tightly in bandages soaked in healing poultices, is still stiff and raw. He flexes his fingers, suppresses the wince. “My arm is fine, Blackwall.”

“We should at least wait for Dorian to arrive, then,” he says. “It’s dangerous – .”

“Blackwall,” Daeron interrupts, crossing to his mount. “I’m going. You do not have to accompany me if you do not want to.”

“Nice try,” Blackwall says. He stands too, nudges Sera with his foot so she rises to join them. As Daeron hefts himself onto Assan’s back, the hart sent to him by his clan before they had even found Skyhold, the words on the missive start to make sense.

They ride in silence. Daeron’s eyes have begun to sting. When he sees the familiar sails of Aravels emerge amongst the crags and rocks he thinks at first he must be dreaming.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is all melodrama so you know, i warned you ❤

Keeper Hawen greets him warmly enough but he remains distrustful of the Inquisition, sees them as little more than a Chantry puppet. Daeron understands even though it stings, even though it makes his skin crawl. He didn’t ask to be their Herald, Herald of the organisation that all but destroyed his own people. He wonders how many elves have lost their lives as a result of his unwanted title, how many elves have been hunted down by drunken shems for the Inquisition’s blasphemy.

Behind him, Sera’s sighs get progressively louder as he speaks to Hawen and the elves, as he listens to their troubles. She scuffs her feet, flounces about until Blackwall takes her by the elbow and pulls her aside, says something low and stern that makes her roll her eyes. Daeron ignores her, promises he will help the clan as much as he can, beginning with the demon infestation in Var Bellanaris.

“We’re _supposed_ to be helping stabilise the region,” Sera says as they leave the camp. “Not helping sad elves relive their glory days.”

Daeron is barely keeping his temper in check. “Killing the demons _will_ help stabilise the region,” he says, through gritted teeth.

Sera sputters, trying and failing to come up with some further excuse, some further reason they shouldn’t be doing this outside of her blind, belligerent prejudice.

Blackwall is quiet, keeps his gaze on Daeron with an intensity that frightens him.

“Inquisitor,” he begins, when the battle is done and the demons are dispatched. “Daeron, I – ” But Sera is kicking at the door to Unadin Grotto and Daeron bypasses him.

“Stupid thing,” Sera mutters. “Can’t get it open. Locks too good. Bet the key’s somewhere ‘round here. The graves maybe.”

“No,” Daeron says, pre-emptively. “I’m not desecrating the graves of my ancestors.”

Sera folds her arms and scowls at him. “I’m not asking _you_ to do it.”

Daeron mirrors her posture, her expression. “I’m not standing by while you do it, either.”

“Why not?” she yells. “They’re _dead_ , your Elfyness! They’re not gonna give a shit what we do here and there might be stuff in there we could use to plug the sky-hole. You remember that, yeah? Big glowy rip? Ancient Magister arsehole trying to destroy the world? You know, the _real_ reason we’re all here?”

“If you’ve got a problem with what we’re doing here, Sera, then _leave_ ,” Daeron snaps and he means it. _Oh,_ he means it. He wants her gone. He wants her out of here, away from him. Out of range of his blades, of his anger. “No one’s stopping you!”

Sera actually looks taken aback by that. Stricken. Angry, upset, like a spoilt child not used to being told no. “You know what, _Inquisitor,_ ” she spits, eventually, eyes damp with angry tears. “You’re right. I’ll go. I’ll go do the _real_ work while you waste everyone’s time out here with your bones and your graves and your _once great kingdom_. Should’ve known this’d end up like this as soon as I saw you. Was _stupid_ to think anything else. You Dalish are all the same.”

She turns, starts stalking out of the burial ground without even pausing to gather her arrows.

Daeron is left with Blackwall staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

“What?” Daeron demands. Now his eyes are burning. “Why are you still standing there? You know you agree with her.”

Blackwall’s eyebrows rise. “I – ”

But Daeron cuts him off again. “What are you waiting for? _Go._ Run back to save your stupid shems from their petty war and _leave me._ ” He says this last part in elven, knows Blackwall will understand one word and one word only but it will be enough.

Blackwall’s face falls, his expression hardens. He glances towards the gates of the burial grounds, then back to Daeron. He looks torn. Eventually he says, “I will go with Sera, make sure she reaches our camp safely, then I will return for you. Don’t – ” he starts but then he seems to recall who he is talking to and stops, exhales, starts again. “I would appreciate it if you kept to the forest or our camps.”

Daeron says nothing and Blackwall sighs. “Stay safe, Daeron. Please.”

-

Alone, Daeron gathers spindleweed and elfroot, he hunts wolves for their leather, he searches for iron ore across the plains. He finds Valorin’s shrivelled, burnt little body and, instead of returning empty handed, follows the instructions in Valorin’s journal to find the talesman. The ruins are easy enough to locate, the two Freemen he finds within easy enough to dispatch but there is a magical barrier protecting the body.

Without a mage, it takes a lot to bypass the barrier and by the time he is through he can hardly stand for the exhaustion. He drags the Freeman corpses outside and sets up camp inside the shrine. His father bore the vallaslin of Sylaise, the only of the men in his clan to do so. The other kids mocked Daeron mercilessly for it, for his father the hunter carrying the gentle curls of the Hearthkeeper etched in blue upon his face.

“ _Sylaise, whose heat rivals Elgar'nan's light_ ,” he sings softly to himself. “ _Sylaise, whose temples rival Mythal's cities, Sylaise, whose breath rivals Andruil's spear._ ”

His father had been so proud the day he got his own vallaslin, the day the Keeper etched Mythal’s branches upon his face. His brothers had clamoured, had spoken endlessly at who’s blessing they would carry.

“ _Sylaise, whose skill rivals June's craft, Sylaise, whose fire cannot be quenched_.”

He won’t sleep tonight. He already knows. His chest is tight, his mind full of ghosts, full of memories. If he had not been sent away – If he had argued – If he had thought beyond blind fury and fear at the war table, listened when Josephine counselled caution –

Perhaps this would not have come to pass.

He thinks of his mother who he hasn’t seen for so many years, who he hasn’t heard from, who held him closely before she left and kissed away his tears, told him he would have to look out for his brothers, for his fathers. If she is alive – and he has never before allowed himself the possibility that she is _not_ – if she is alive, she will not know of their clan’s fate. Of her sons. Her husband. Her mother, her father, her sister, her nieces and nephews. Her friends. Her world.

He lights the brazier in the centre of the shrine.

“ _We give ourselves gladly to your service_.”

-

He gives up on sleep as the first grey light of dawn starts to seep into the shrine and gets up to finish gathering up what roots and herbs he can. Before he leaves, he slips the ring he found in the shrine onto his finger. It cloaks him in stealth for as long as he wishes as long as he does not attempt to attack anything – perfect for avoiding Blackwall should he return.

Guilt has already begun to gnaw at him for that, for what he said, for sending Sera away but there is only so much he can process at one time.

At mid-morning he makes his way back to the clan. The only item remaining on Nissa’s list is great bear pelt, he can buy them from the Black Emporium, he knows but not right now, he will bring those later.

“Ah, but you look exhausted, da’len,” Keeper Hawen says when he returns. “Come, sit, eat with us.”

“I couldn’t,” Daeron says but he sits automatically, out of exhaustion, out of habit and when a bowl of warm mashed berries and halla-milk is pushed towards him he accepts it.

“Your companions?” Hawen asks.

“I’ve sent them away for a time,” Daeron says. “I needed – some time apart from them.”

Hawen nods. He is unsettled, Daeron knows. Concerned but unsure how to proceed. “Well, you are welcome to rest here, should you have need,” he says, after a moment.

“Ma serannas,” Daeron says, nodding his thanks. “If you have need of any help – ”

Keeper Hawen clasps his shoulder gently. “You have already done much for us, da’len, we cannot expect you to – ”

“ _Please_ ,” Daeron says. It comes out cracked, broken. He swallows before going on. “I have been away from my clan for so long – ” _And I will never get to go back –_ “It would be a comfort for me to spend some time here, to help in anyway I can.”

Hawen looks at him sadly, squeezes his shoulder. “Alright. If that is what you want I am sure we can find you something.”

Daeron smiles.

-

It very quickly becomes too much.

Everything here reminds him of home. Of his family.

He spends some time with the halla, some time helping Nissa prepare the leather for use, repairing aravels. Over an afternoon meal of frybread and fresh rabbit stew, Hawen tells him stories of the lands around them, of things he has heard and things he has pieced together from fragmented tales.

“There are runes scattered about on the ruins here. I have heard they may reveal the location of a lost temple to one of our gods,” he says and Daeron is thinking of how excited his Keeper would be at the prospect, how he and the clan’s First would no doubt have snuck off by now to find it, to reclaim some snippet of their lost history.

“Truly?” he says, voice slightly strangled.

Hawen nods, some of his watchful concern has been lost in his joy of sharing this potential discovery with someone else. “It is what I have heard, da’len. Can you imagine? A temple – untouched and unmarred by the shem.”

“I should find it,” Daeron decides.

“It would be grand,” Hawen agrees. Then he frowns, must realise Daeron is being serious and says. “I would not advise traversing the ruins alone, however. One at least is overrun with demons and the runes require veilfire to be read. Forgive me for the assumption but it would seem you are no mage.”

“No,” Daeron agrees. He sets down his bowl. “Don’t worry, Keeper Hawen, I’ll not go alone.”

-

He goes alone.

Of course he does.

Treks across the plains to a ruined bathhouse that houses a rift.

He knows as soon as he hears the familiar rumble and crack that this is a mistake, that the Inquisition will end when Blackwall finds his body scatted amongst the white stone and scorched, water-starved grass, but his feet carry him forward anyway. Maybe it’s better the world ends. Maybe it already has.

He was only doing in the first place because it meant he would get to go home at the end of it.

Now there’s no home to go back to.

He makes it past the first wave but just barely. There’s blood everywhere, mostly his own, makes it difficult to keep a grip on his blades.

 _Most of the Clan is already dead,_ the missive said.

A rage demon knocks him to the ground.

_They are coming for us._

They will be so disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ – ”

He closes his eyes just before he feels the familiar muffled thwap of a barrier being deployed around him, frost magic at its back. _Solas,_ he thinks, blearily, but it can’t be. Solas left. He left and –

But it is Solas. Solas striding across the ruins towards him, demons dispatched and grabbing his wrist, yanking it upwards to close the rift as he had done all those months ago.

“Of all the _stupid_ – ” he is murmuring. He yanks Daeron up further, sends a wave of healing magic through him. “What were you _thinking_?” he demands. “Are you truly so proud, so _pig-headed_ that you thought to take on a whole host of demons on your own? You do realise that you and you alone may hold the key to saving the world, do you not? And you would throw it away in some attempt to appease – ”

“My clan died,” Daeron says and it’s the first time he’s said it out loud.

Solas stops. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed. His mouth opens and shuts a few times before he says, “I’m sorry?”

“They’re dead,” he says, again. It feels real now. Finally real. Horrifically, terrifyingly real.

He can’t breathe. Solas is staring at him blankly.

“Look,” he says, pulling the scroll from his pocket and shoving it towards him. “Look, here, see.”

Suddenly he needs Solas to read it. Needs someone else to know. To tell him it’s real. To tell him it’s a dream. Solas takes it from his clumsy grasp and unrolls it carefully. He closes his eyes when he has finished reading the message.

“I am sorry,” he says, slowly.

“I don’t know what to do,” Daeron says. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know – ”

Solas steps forwards, draws him into a hug. It’s awkward until Daeron melts into it and shakes.

“I’m sorry,” Solas says, winds a hand through his hair and holds him close. “I am so sorry, lethallin.”

It all feels so real now and yet so impossible at the same time. How can they all be gone?

“Solas – ” he feels like he’s choking, he wants this all to end. He isn’t thinking when he grips Solas’ jaw and tugs him down to kiss. He just wants this to be over, just wants this not to be happening.

“Inquisitor,” Solas says, against his mouth. “ _Daeron_ , we shouldn’t – ”

“Please,” Daeron says. “Please, I just want – ”

Solas makes a sound low in his throat but he doesn’t push Daeron away. “Daeron, this will – ”

“Please,” Daeron says, again.

Solas growls, his grip tightens.

**Author's Note:**

> i'll be honest, i have no great track record with multi-chapter fics and my two weeks of post-surgery recovery in thedas is up so this might not get finished but i'll do my best


End file.
